


Caught In The Tide

by CourierNinetyTwo



Series: Noir AU [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:23:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Belladonna always runs straight into trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught In The Tide

Six bullets left.

Blake cursed under her breath, shoving the last of the ammunition into Gambol Shroud’s chamber. This job had gone south so fast it might as well have been a transmeridian flight, and leaving blood spilled all over the docks wasn’t exactly how she had planned to take in the glow of the midnight hour.

Getting back a prized cane was a cakewalk job if there ever was one, but Junior Xiong had brought ten kinds of backup, including a pair of twins throwing knives around like a three-ring circus act. Ozpin was going to pay double plus expenses or Blake would throw his twice-damned walking stick right over the pier and into the ocean.

“Just leave the cane, cat, and you can get out of this alive!” Junior shouted.

Blake quickly glanced around the corner of the building, catching sight of a machine-gun with enough heat fill her and any getaway car full of holes. She had managed to disable the twins by knocking over a wall of crates and leaving them stuck in a warehouse that would blow up like a powder keg if they used a lighter to pierce the darkness, but there was only one walkway back up to the streets and Junior had his barrel pointed up the narrow alley, waiting for Blake to make a run for it.

“Alright!” Blake yelled, drawing back the hammer of Gambol Shroud. “I’ll roll it out across the floor, but I don’t want you plugging my arm full of lead. Let me hear that belt of bullets hit the ground, huh?”

There was a grunt of hesitation, but after a moment, a clatter of brass hitting wood made all four of Blake’s ears twitch. She took a breath, bearing down for the chance that Junior might be a crack enough shot to squeeze off a round or two before she could get out of range, and darted out, breaking into a sprint.

The walkway creaked and groaned under her shoes, a few rotten planks threatening to snap, and Junior’s yell of rage echoed across the docks. Blake heard the clip of the machine-gun click back into place right before she leapt onto the asphalt, turning the corner just as a hail of bullets tore through the air.

All of them missed but one.

Blake heard her trenchcoat tear a split second before a hot jolt of pain lanced through her side. The bejeweled cane suddenly felt twice as heavy, her fingers briefly slipping around its lacquered handle before she managed to tuck it under the arm holding the pistol, teeth grit as blood started to trickle down her ribs, soaking through the shirt she’d just bought last week. Her car was only a street away, but trying to drive like this was asking for an accident on the maze of switchback roads up to Ozpin’s crumbling old mansion.

It took a second to get her bearings, on alert for the sound of Junior’s heavy footsteps, but if she could cut through Main Street and hop a fence—Blake forced her flagging lungs to bear the agony of another dash up the pavement, grateful that it was late enough that the rest of the city was asleep, save for the occasional sluggish taxi. Her side was aching with every step, refusing to heal while there was still a bullet embedded into flesh, but she could make it two more blocks. She had to.

The fence was the sticking point. Blake came to a halt in front of wooden slats, briefly bending over to catch her breath. It was only up to her neck, but there weren’t any good holds and both of her arms were already shot from a long night of fisticuffs with back-flipping twins. She let out a groan and threw the cane over the fence, shoving Gambol Shroud back into its holster and buckling it tight.

Spotting a trashcan under a pile of yesterday’s newspapers, Blake dragged it in front of the fence, praying it would stay put just long enough for her to barrel over. Aluminum clanged as she put one foot atop it, the can wobbling dangerously before Blake hoisted herself past the pointed edges of the fence, leaving the palms of both gloves riddled with splinters. Hitting the ground hurt more than the jump, one ankle threatening to give up completely, but Blake snagged the cane and worked back up to a quickened shuffle, looking for an apartment with a red window.

It was another brownstone away and three flights of stairs up, the latter draining away the dregs of adrenaline fueling her escape. By the time she reached the door with the custom lettered DO NOT DISTURB sign, Blake slumped to her knees, head striking the burgundy-painted surface in lieu of a knock. She gasped for air, trying to use the cane to stand again, but it was futile, her legs turned to rubber and black spots dancing on the edge of her vision. All she could do was pray The Three Apples hadn’t asked for too many encores tonight.

A soft click signaled the deadbolt opening, Blake letting out a sigh of relief that turned to a yelp as the door swung open, depriving her of the one surface where she’d had any balance. It might not have been the first time she’d collapsed on the floor with a bullet in her hide, but it was definitely the first time it had ever happened at Pyrrha Nikos’ feet.

“Blake! Oh my—”

Strong hands gripped under her arms, the room spinning as Pyrrha somehow managed to drag her past the threshold into the apartment. The door was shut with a slam, the locks turned and the chain set before Blake found herself eased into a chair, vision blurring in a mosaic of red and gold before focusing on the lines of Pyrrha’s face, gone tight with worry. Her fingers went numb, the cane falling to the floor, smeared with blood from where she had held it clutched to her side.

“Where are you hurt?” Pyrrha asked, already stripping off her trenchcoat.

“A lot of places.” Blake coughed, tasting bile. “Shot in the ribs is what’s not healing, though.”

Buttons popped and flew as Pyrrha tugged her shirt open, absinthe-glass eyes going wide at the sight of the dark stain that had already spread through the fabric. Blake closed her eyes, fighting to stay conscious as the other woman’s fingers prodded near the wound, sending a flare of agony through already rattled nerves. The bullet was definitely still in there; she could feel it, her Aura fighting the intrusion.

“Can you see it?” Blake wheezed.

“Yes, although I don’t have—” Pyrrha hesitated. “I have a knife and whiskey, Blake. Unless you want me to call a doctor.”

“I know you have the star power to get a middle of the night house call, Pyrrha, but unless you have a doc living on the first floor, I’m not—” Blake let out a shaking breath. “Might not be fast enough.”

The hand on her side, warm and comforting for what little good it did to stop the bleeding, pulled away. Blake’s eyes fluttered open halfway, but Pyrrha was already in the kitchen behind her, bottles and cabinet doors rattling. A steel blade slid free from its chopping block with a soft ting, followed by a muttered curse in Pyrrha’s native tongue as a drawer was opened, something else pulled from within its depths.

“I have tweezers too, I suppose.” Pyrrha came back into her fading sphere of vision, pushing an uncorked bottle of single malt between Blake’s blood-slick gloves. “Next time I’m at the drugstore, I think I’ll stock up on some proper anesthetic.”

Blake choked down a long gulp of the whiskey, her throat already ablaze from the run and not taking kindly to the burn of alcohol. Pyrrha tossed a towel onto her lap, trying to set out the makeshift supplies in an orderly fashion before dabbing away as much blood from the wound as was possible. It would keep trickling out as her body tried to heal around the bullet, unable to force it out from some ill luck of the angle.

“I think it’s—” Pyrrha felt against Blake’s side again, earning a groan of pain. “It must have stuck in your rib.”

“I was getting that idea.” Blake said, following the words with another quick sip from the bottle.

“I’m sorry.” Pyrrha’s overhead light reflected off the knife, giving it a dull gleam. “This is definitely going to hurt.”

There was little to do but try not to bite through her own tongue as Pyrrha began to ease the bullet out, or at least cut wide enough for the tweezers to slide through and yank the mashed-up slug free. Even with the whiskey desperately trying to cool her blood, Blake couldn’t see anything past the white glare of agony until she heard the wet strike of metal against a rug worth three times what she made in a year. She was going to have to buy out Nora’s entire stock of flowers and take Pyrrha on one of those couple’s cruises.

Or just spend the rest of her life apologizing. That might do.

“It’s closing.” Pyrrha’s relief was palpable. “Although I can’t say it won’t leave a scar.”

“It’ll have plenty of company.” Blake felt a bit steadier on her next breath, now that she wasn’t leaking like a cheap airship engine. “Sorry about the rug.”

“The rug?” The other woman’s voice shot up nearly an octave and Blake held back a groan. Pain was the least of her problems at this stage. “You promised you were going to start bringing backup on dangerous jobs.”

“It wasn’t dangerous!” Blake protested, gesturing weakly to the cane. “Ozpin, that professor type that lives up on the hill. Some thugs broke in and took his…well, he called it an ‘alchemical stone’ or something, but it’s just a walking stick with a jewel on top. I went to get it back.”

“Without backup.” Pyrrha said sharply.

“Junior Xiong is a two-bit gunner who can barely tie his own shoes.” Blake set the whiskey bottle aside, not wanting to get drunk on top of everything else. “I didn’t think he was going to have six guys and a damn knife-throwing act with him.”

Pyrrha stood up, wiping her hands on the towel. “You lied to me.”

“Alright, I—” Blake hung her head. “I screwed up. I thought I could do it by myself. I’m sorry.”

When she hazarded a glance upward, sympathy was slowly wearing through Pyrrha’s anger like water etching a path through stone. They fought every so often, maybe more than a pair should, but the other woman had a big heart for everything and everyone, and Blake knew she had to quit tripping up and stepping on it.

“I’m sorry.” Blake repeated. “I’ll put an ad out on the scroll tomorrow for a partner. First thing.”

“You’re a mess.” Pyrrha’s palm gently cupped her cheek. “I’m going to go run some water for a bath.”

Blake could only nod, guilt sinking down into her stomach like a block of cement. There were plenty of bruises and cuts that her body was catching up on, the harsh ache of overtaxed muscles flaring as she pried off her gloves and undid the last remaining button of her shirt, tugging off each sleeve with a hiss of pain. After slipping off her shoes and socks, Blake staggered to her feet, fingers fumbling with the buckle of her belt as she took slow, deliberate steps towards the bathroom.

The tub was huge, one of those clawfoot types that could hold a belly of water deep enough to drown in. It was slowly starting to fill from the faucet, pipes rattling and clanging as the heater kicked in. Pyrrha was facing the mirror above the sink, removing her earrings; she didn’t look up when Blake approached, not until Blake stopped behind her, reaching up to undo the clasp of the necklace still weighing heavily around the other woman’s throat. Their eyes met in the reflected image, steam beginning to encroach along the edges of the glass.

“How was the crowd tonight?” Blake asked softly, letting the necklace slide down into Pyrrha’s waiting hand.

“No rowdier than usual.” Pyrrha placed each piece of jewelry into a small set of drawers next to the sink. “Don’t think I’ve forgiven you so easily, Blake.”

“I’m not asking for forgiveness.” Leaning forward, her brow could just touch the warm plane of Pyrrha’s shoulder, the difference in their height too much to cradle in the curve of the other woman’s neck. “I know I’ve done this too many times.”

“Losing you would…” Pyrrha drew in a slow breath. “The thought gives me nightmares.”

“You know I—” Blake could feel her mouth trying to form the next word, but it caught on her tongue, turned the sentiment into a mess of syllables. She fumbled for a substitute. “—care about you more than anyone else.”

Pyrrha nodded, both hands clutching the porcelain rim of the sink. “Finish getting undressed.”

Blake took a step back, unzipping her trousers and pushing them down to the floor with her underwear. The tub was past its halfway mark, sure to spill over once it was occupied if the faucet was left running too much longer, and she reached over to turn the small metal wheel until the water stopped flowing.

Stepping over the smooth wall into the bath made Blake bite back a wince, but the warmth was a relief as soon as it started to soak into her muscles, dirt and blood alike scalded from her skin. The bullet wound wept a bit more, tendrils of red spiraling through the water, but it had sealed from the inside enough that Blake knew she would survive the night.

What she didn’t expect was for Pyrrha to follow, the nightgown with lace brushing against the other woman’s knees ending up on top of her trousers. Blake eased her legs apart to make room, watching as Pyrrha kneeled between her thighs, lines of fatigue blunting the last sharp edges of a well-deserved fury. There was something brighter too, the affection they had nurtured in quiet hours, back in dressing rooms and smoke-laden bars, passion stolen in all the places no one would expect to find them together.

“You left your spare clothes from your car last time.” Pyrrha murmured, water shifting in miniature waves as the other woman leaned forward. “So there’s something for you to wear in the morning.”

Blake slid her hands into Pyrrha’s hair, wild and red, ignoring the faint sting of still-bruised knuckles. “You want me to stay?”

“I always want you to stay.” Pyrrha said, tone leaving no room for argument.

Their lips met, the contact brief and gentle until Blake encouraged more, ensuring Pyrrha that it didn’t hurt. Each exchange lasted longer than the next until they were quietly gasping, the heat of the water only emphasizing the friction between their bodies, sparks of desire that danced across Blake’s dark limbs and Pyrrha’s sun-kissed curves. It was always like this, a fire neither of them could extinguish despite anger, despite grief. Blake let out a faint sigh, watching as a long lock of Pyrrha’s hair drifted into the water, turning sanguine. Going further was out of the question, considering the state she was in.

“In the morning.” Pyrrha whispered against her mouth, as if reading her thoughts. “Just be with me.”

“Always.” Blake echoed quietly, drawing the other woman down into another kiss.


End file.
